


a little under the weather

by LovelyLessie



Category: Groundhog Day - Minchin/Rubin
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-02-22 07:46:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13162473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyLessie/pseuds/LovelyLessie
Summary: Phil might be getting sick, but there's no way he's going to let it get in his way when he's been trying so hard to be a better team player at the studio.  After all, he's finally found some pride in what he does. (Or, Phil is reminded that some days hard work and a good attitude aren't all you need, after all.) (post-loop, light on actual romance and heavy on comfort and companionship.)





	1. Chapter 1

Phil wakes up with a pounding headache and a heavy feeling pressing down on his chest. “Ugh,” he groans, throwing his arm over his face, and turns over to shut off his alarm. Everything hurts, and there’s a sharp sour taste at the back of his mouth that makes his stomach uneasy.

His phone goes off again a few minutes later, and he finally pushes himself up on his elbows to shut it off. His head is dull and fuzzy, but he recognizes slowly that he’s running late; he must have slept through his first alarm entirely.

Fuck, he feels like _garbage._

With another groan, he rolls to his feet and stumbles across the room to the bathroom so he can shower. Just standing makes him feel dizzy and disoriented, and he screws his eyes shut to stop the room from spinning. “Oh, God,” he mutters as he turns on the water. “Okay, Phil, come on, let’s do this.”

The steam and heat should help, he tries to assure himself, leaning against the shower wall to keep himself steady. It’s probably just a cold, he can deal with a cold for a day.

He stays in the shower longer than strictly necessary, letting the hot water ease the tension in his back, until he reminds himself he’s going to be late if he doesn’t hurry up.

He staggers out of the shower and wipes the steam from the mirror so he can shave. He nicks his jaw and swears, wiping a drop of blood away with his thumb as he turns away and goes back to his room to get dressed.

His hands are stiff and clumsy, and he fumbles with the buttons on his shirt; he groans in frustration and snatches his jacket and tie from the hanger before stomping out to the kitchen.

“Jesus,” he mutters as he starts his coffee brewing and drops a slice of bread in the toaster. “Everything’s got to be a goddamn trial today, huh?” He’ll feel better once he’s eaten, though. He hopes.

He pours himself a glass of orange juice while he waits and sips it slowly, leaning against the counter and resting his head in his hand. It helps wash the sour taste out of his mouth at least, and it should chase off whatever’s got him feeling so off-kilter.

It takes him two tries to get his tie on straight, and he doesn’t even bother buttoning his jacket; he’ll look better with it open than with it done up crooked. He examines himself in the reflection of his phone screen to smooth down his hair, grimacing at the time and at the cut on his jaw still glaring red, even if it is barely bleeding.

Anyone else, he’s sure, would have already given up and gone back to bed, but Phil Connors is not about to miss a broadcast on account of a headache and a bit of a chill. The studio is counting on him, after all, and besides that, he's been doing pretty well, lately, at actually putting some genuine effort into what he does every day. Who'd have thought a few months ago that he'd come to realize he still  _likes_ this job?

He butters his toast and fills his coffee mug, screwing the lid on tight. As an afterthought, he digs a bottle of Tylenol out of the drawer and shakes out two, which he washes down with another glass of juice. He doesn’t even like orange juice, he thinks irritably, but if it helps him get over this faster, he’ll suffer through it.

* * *

 

By the end of his segment on the eight o'clock broadcast, his head is spinning and he’s so damn overheated he’s sure he’s sweating through his shirt, but by some miracle he gets through it without stumbling and only lets himself relax when Larry gives him he thumbs-up. 

“You okay?” Larry asks as he walks off the sound stage. “You look kinda...”

“Fine, I’m fine,” he says quickly, waving his hand. “I just need water.” 

He grabs a bottle from the cooler and cracks it open, quietly relieved by the cold, and the way it soothes the sticky feeling and sour taste at the back of his mouth as he gulps it down. 

"Aaaaaand back to work,” he mutters, as much to himself as to anyone else, and slouches over to his desk. There’s a lot of readings to go over and try to force into some kind of shape that makes sense, even if they do make him dizzy to think about at the moment. 

He feels a little better sitting down, though his head still feels like someone’s stuffed cotton around his brain. For God’s sake, it takes him three tries to type in his password right so he can even try to look at statistics. And his headache only gets worse as he works, checking and double-checking temperature and barometric pressure readings against the predictive models for the rest of the day and the days after to work out his best guess at how the weather will turn out. Dammit, he likes his work, and he’s good at it, too, but at this rate it’s going to take him more time to finish this than he has in the day. 

He groans and puts his head in his hands, rubbing at his eyes and wishing it would help any. He’s shivering, he realizes, and grimaces. Wasn’t he burning up just a few moments ago? 

A knock at the door startles him, and he looks up blearily to see Rita leaning in. “Oh,” he says. “Hi.”

“Hey,” she replies. “God, you look exhausted.” 

“Uh, thanks,” he says, frowning. “Something I can help you with?” 

She shrugs. “Just checking on you. Larry said you didn’t look too great this morning. Is there anything you need?”

He waves a hand and shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he says. “Maybe a little worn out, that’s all.” 

“Mm,” she says, frowning. “Well, let me know if there’s anything I can do.” 

“Sure,” he agrees, and turns back to his desk as she leaves. Apparently he moves too quickly, because his stomach does a backflip as he does, and he swallows hard, suddenly uncomfortably aware of the water he just drank sloshing in his gut. 

Groaning quietly through his teeth, he props up his chin in his hand and returns to glowering at his computer.

* * *

 

He’s so disoriented and distracted that he’s almost late for the studio meeting at nine, and even though he makes it on time, he hardly hears any word of it. His ears are ringing, and he can feel sweat breaking out on his brow, but he tries to concentrate in spite of it and hopes he doesn't  _look_ as absent as he  _feels._

Every few minutes a new wave of nausea makes his stomach tighten for a moment; he clenches his hands into fists under the table until it passes. He can’t actually be sick. He just drank too quickly, that’s all, and his stomach will settle down if he can just wait it out. 

It's taking so much of his focus to just keep composure that it takes him a few seconds to realize that someone’s saying his name, and he looks up guiltily to see Tim frowning at him. 

“Phil,” he says, a little sharply. “What’s gotten into you?” 

“Nothing,” he says. “Uh, didn’t sleep well. Sorry.” 

“Could you at least _try_ to look like you’re here with us?” Tim asks. 

“I’ll do my best,” he says, and would say more, except that his stomach convulses and he feels acid burning the back of his throat. 

Oh, fuck, he’s actually going to throw up. 

“I, uh,” he manages, and swallows hard. “Think maybe I need a ten, I’ll be right - back -“ 

Before anyone has the chance to stop him he quickly ducks out of the room into the hall. 

As soon as the door closes behind him he runs for the bathroom. It’s empty, thank God, so there’s no one to see him; he only hopes no one in the studio has caught on to how badly he’s shaking. He ducks into the back stall and locks it. His stomach lurches, and he gags, leaning over the toilet as he retches and vomits up several mouthfuls of water and orange juice. 

“Oh, God,” he groans, and slumps against the wall, sliding to the floor. So much for the juice helping chase off this bug. His throat is burning all the way down into his chest, and his stomach is still queasy and tight. He wraps his arms around himself and closes his eyes, taking shallow breaths and hoping it’ll help.

The nausea doesn’t go away, but it recedes a little and becomes more like a vague discomfort than an imminent threat. 

“Okay,” he mutters, rubbing his eyes. “Alright, Phil, pull yourself together, gotta get back in there.” 

He gets slowly to his feet and hesitates for a moment, waiting to see if his stomach protests to moving before he goes any farther. When he doesn’t get sick again, he sighs with relief and steps out of the stall. 

His reflection in the mirror catches his eye and he turns to look, grimacing. He knows he didn’t look this awful when he woke up. Jesus, he’s really getting sick, isn’t he? 

He splashes a handful water over his face, hoping to wash away the sheen of sweat on his forehead and maybe cool the flush in his cheeks, and for good measure combs his hair back with his fingers to make himself a little more presentable. It helps some, he decides, and leans down to rinse his mouth as well before he heads back to the conference room to rejoin the meeting.


	2. Chapter 2

He feels a little better the rest of the morning, or at least less shaky and feverish, though he does grab a ginger ale to sip slowly while he works and, he hopes, keep his stomach calmer for the rest of the day.

By the time his lunch break comes, he’s actually starting to get his appetite back, though he’s not sure how much he trusts it. Still, he hasn’t been sick again, and going hungry all day isn’t likely to make him feel better, either. He settles on getting a cup of soup from the cafeteria; just a little bit of something should be alright if it’s nothing heavy.

He goes downstairs and gets himself a cup of chicken noodle which he eats at his desk, a few spoonfuls at time, pausing in between to see if his stomach decides to protest. It doesn’t, for the moment, and he manages to eat almost all of it. Maybe he even feels a little better, he thinks optimistically; at least he’s not shivering now.

He could probably keep eating, but when his break ends he sets his soup aside to go back to work, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand as he squints at his computer screen. Everything is too much effort right now to do two things at once.

“Hey!” Tim shouts from the door a few minutes later while he’s staring blankly at the screen, trying to decipher what he’s looking at. “Phil, production wants up to date models before you’re on camera.”

“Right, right,” he replies, shaking himself. “Uh, they’re - I’ve got them, I’ll send them over, sorry.” Jesus, he’s a mess today. Stumbling over his report, making updates late. He’s got to pull himself together.

He gets the update to production and lays his head on his desk. The rest of this can wait until after the twelve thirty is over with, he decides. If he can just rest for a few minutes it’ll help get him back to a state he can actually broadcast in, and his head will clear up by then so he can actually focus on work. 

* * *

 

He heads down to filming a few minutes before he’s on, feeling not much better at all. Nothing to be done about it now, he thinks, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His headache is getting worse again, but he just needs to push through it.

He passes Rita in the hall on his way to the studio floor and waves, giving her his best effort at a smile. She gives him a look, raising an eyebrow and twisting up her mouth into a worried frown. “You still don’t look too hot,” she says, catching his arm. “Should you really be at work right now?”

“I’m fine,” he insists, shrugging her off. “Besides, I can’t go home, I’ve still got two broadcasts to do.”

“Yeah, that’s kind of what I’m worried about,” she says.

He sighs. “Look, if it makes you feel better, I’ll pass off the hard work to Josh and go home after the seven, alright?”

Before she can protest to that he quickly turns away and keeps walking.

“Phil,” she calls after him.

“Gotta go,” he says over his shoulder. “I’ll be late.”

He’s starting to feel a little nauseous again, which makes him very glad the twelve thirty news only has a short weather update. He’ll be on and off again, five minutes or less, and then if he has to he can go hide in the bathroom again until his stomach settles.

“Ready to go on?” Larry asks him as he crosses the studio floor to the green screen in the back corner.

“I’m always ready,” he jokes, glancing sideways at the monitor to catch a glimpse of himself. He doesn’t really look as bad as Rita seems to think, at least on camera; maybe he’s a little pale, and there’s faint shadows under his eyes, but otherwise he’s perfectly presentable.

“Alright,” Tim says, “on in five.” Larry counts down with his fingers, and Phil puts on his most charming smile.

“Good afternoon,” he says. “Phil Connors here, with your latest update on Good Weather. If you’ve been outside, you’ve probably noticed we’re seeing temperatures are a little lower than expected - only up to fifty-two here in Pittsburgh, a little less in surrounding areas, with a current low temperature of forty-eight out in the Greensburg area.”

His hands are trembling; he shoves them in his pockets to hide it, glancing at the monitor and hoping his smile doesn’t look too fake.

“But don’t worry,” he continues, waving one hand haphazardly in the air to indicate the map. “You’ll want to bring a jacket if you’re going out, but no need for an umbrella, we’ll have clear skies the rest of the afternoon, twenty percent chance of light showers later tonight into tomorrow morning...”

God, his head is spinning, and trying to look at the camera and the monitor is making him dizzy. His mouth fills with saliva and he swallows.

“No changes to our five day forecast since this morning,” he continues, trying to refocus. “We’re looking at cool weather, some clouds moving in with light showers later this week, but, uh...”

His stomach tightens and he fights to keep up his cheerful expression as he stifles a burp that brings acid searing up into his throat. Oh, fuck, he’s going to throw up. He’s going to throw up, and he’s still on _camera_. He gulps hard against the taste of vomit in the back of his mouth.

“Shouldn’t see anything major before this weekend, when we’re expecting heavier rain across the county,” he manages. “Um, Phil Connors, that’s Good Weather.”

He freezes, eyes fixed on the camera, smile still stuck in place as he swallows, taking very shallow breaths in the hopes that it will ease the pressure under his ribs as his stomach turns and twists.

Larry signals he’s clear, and he bolts for the trashcan by the studio door. “Phil, can we -“ Tim tries to say, but Phil ignores him. Even at a run, he only barely makes it to the door in time to grab the garbage can before he heaves and violently expels a stream of broth and chunks of chicken.

“Fuck!” he groans, bracing his hands on the sides of the trash and grimacing at the sight of his half-digested lunch all over the inside.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Tim says. “Could you have said -“

“I was fine before the broadcast,” he pants, which is only sort of a lie. “Just - just give me a minute -“

“Go home, Phil,” Tim says. “Josh can cover your seven -“

“I’ll be okay,” he protests weakly. “I just need -“

The door opens and he breaks off, looking up to see Rita standing in the entrance. She looks from him down to the trash can he’s still leaning on for support, and then over to Tim.

“Uh,” she says slowly. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, giving her a shaky grin and a thumbs-up. “I’m good. Great.”

“Rita, will you get him out of here?” Tim demands.

“I don’t need to go home,” he insists. “Look, give me ten, I’ll be fine, we can do another take, and -“

His stomach roils and he gags, choking on acid and spit which he swallows quickly. The last thing he needs is for Rita to see him sick like this, he thinks, but it doesn’t seem to matter; he retches and vomits again anyways, unable to stop himself.

“Oh, dear lord,” Rita mutters, and jogs over to rest a hand on his shoulder as he catches his breath again.

“Sorry,” he manages, scrubbing his burning eyes with the back of his hand. “Soup didn’t agree with me, I guess.”

“You’re going home,” she says.

“No, no,” he says desperately. “I can work, I can - look, okay, I get it, if you don’t want me to do the seven that’s fine, but I still have stuff to do, computer stuff, I’m busy -“

“You’re not the only damn weatherman in this studio,” Rita says, and brushes his hair back to lay her hand on his forehead. “And you’re burning up. You need to go home and get some rest.”

“But, Rita,” he tries to say. She shushes him.

“I’ll make sure he gets home, if you can do without me,” she tells Tim. “I don’t think he should drive himself.”

“I don’t...” he says, but no one is listening to him. And besides that, his stomach is starting to churn again, and talking isn’t helping much.

“Come on,” Rita says, taking him by the arm. “Let’s get you home and into bed.”


	3. Chapter 3

Phil climbs into Rita’s car and rests his face against the window, closing his eyes and letting the cold glass soothe the burning in his cheeks. Suddenly he feels very tired and run-down, he realizes, and finds he’s actually a little glad to be going home. 

“Hang in there,” Rita says sympathetically as she starts the car. “And try to let me know if you’re gonna start puking again so I can pull over, okay?” 

He nods mutely. “Sorry you had to see that,” he says, his voice a little hoarse. “Not exactly my best look, huh?”

She laughs a little at that. “You weren’t looking your best before I watched you throw up,” she says as she’s pulling out of the parking lot. After a moment, she adds, “You know, you’re a goddamn idiot.” 

"Hey, be nice,” he says. “I don’t feel good.” 

“Oh, my God,” she replies. “Don’t try to play that card on me after the fuss you made about staying at work!” 

“Well, I could have,” he says, casting her a sullen glance. “At least to keep up with readings and work on model selection.” 

“This is exactly what I mean when I said you’re an idiot,” she says. “You’re sick, you need to be resting so you can get over it.” 

“Mm,” he says noncommittally. He’d probably say more, but he’s starting to feel queasy again, and he really, _really_ does not want to throw up in Rita’s car. 

“I’m just glad I came to check on you,” she continues. “I saw you from production, you looked awful.” 

He grimaces. “Oh, great. Hope the footage is at least usable.” 

She sighs. “I’m a lot more concerned about you than the footage! I thought you were about to pass out.” 

He manages a shaky laugh at that before she turns the corner and his stomach lurches into his throat. “Shit,” he chokes out. “Pull over, pull over -“ 

She pulls up to the curb, and he cracks open the door, leaning over the gutter as he heaves and coughs up a mouthful of soup. Rita reaches over and rests her hand between his shoulder blades, rubbing the back of his neck with her fingertips. He pants and gasps, coughs, retches again but doesn’t bring anything up. Probably there’s just nothing left. 

“Sorry,” he manages once he catches his breath. “Sorry, I, uh...” 

“Stop apologizing,” she says gently. “You okay now?” 

“For now, I think, yeah,” he says, wrapping his arm around his stomach, which is still uneasy but not so knotted up now. He pulls the door shut and leans back in his seat, wishing he had water just to rinse his mouth. 

“We’re almost there,” she assures him as she pulls away from the curb. “Just hang in there.” 

They get to his building without any further incident, and he gets out of the car feeling more tired than anything else. “Thanks,” he mutters, waving half heartedly to Rita. “I’ll, uh, see you...”

She gets out as well and closes the door, locking it. “Let me walk you in,” she says. 

“Oh,” he replies, blinking at her. “Okay.” 

He debates for a moment in the lobby whether he should try to make it up the stairs or take the elevator, but he’s in no condition to climb three flights of steps even with Rita’s help, and if the elevator makes him feel worse, well, he’ll be back in his own apartment when he gets upstairs. 

It does make him dizzy, and he sways a little on his feet, bracing himself against the handrail, but at least he doesn’t start dry-heaving again. He fumbles with his keys and almost drops them trying to unlock the door. “Ah, fuck,” he mutters, glowering at his hands as if it might make them stop shaking so much. 

“You should sit down,” Rita says, trailing him into his apartment. “You still look a little unsteady.” 

“Mm,” he agrees, and slouches over to the couch. “Hey, do me a favor before you go?” 

“Who said I’m going?” she replies, walking past him to the kitchen. “You should try to drink something. Do you want juice?” 

“God, no,” he says. “I don’t like orange juice in the first place, and it made me sick this morning.” 

“Okay, well, you need to get fluids,” she says, and then turns to look at him. “Wait, you’ve been sick all morning?” 

“Uh,” he says, hunching his shoulders. “I mean, not exactly? I only threw up once this morning.”

“For God’s sake, Phil,” she snaps, rolling her eyes. “You should have gone home! Let me get you some water.” 

“I don’t really...” he protests weakly, but she’s clearly not listening. 

She brings him a glass and sets it down on the coffee table before leaning over him to feel his face again. “You’re pretty feverish, too,” she says, “which means you need fluids even more. Try to drink it for me, okay? Just little sips.”

“Okay, okay,” he grumbles. “Look, Rita, when you go back to the station -“ 

“Let me get you a blanket in case you get chills,” she says, completely ignoring him.

“Get the trash can that’s under my desk while you’re back there,” he calls as she disappears into the hall. That, at least, she seems to hear, because she has it tucked under one arm when she returns with a blanket and the sheet from his bed. 

“Thanks,” he says, taking the blanket and pulling it around his shoulders. “Rita, listen, when you get back -“

She sets the trash can down next to the couch and goes back to the kitchen. “I’m not going back to the station,” she says coolly as she digs out an old grocery bag from under the sink. 

“What?” he asks, narrowing his eyes at her. “You can’t just not go back. You still have to work.” 

“I’m taking the rest of the day off,” she says. “I’m not going to leave you alone when you’re sick -“ 

“I don’t need a babysitter,” he whines. “I can look after myself.” 

“Clearly not,” she says. 

“Anyways, I need you to go back,” he adds, leaning forward. “You have to go on my computer and email me my work.” 

“Mm, no, I don’t think so,” she says, crossing the living room again to tuck the grocery bag into the trash can. “You’re home to rest, not to keep wearing yourself out with work.” 

“It’s my job,” he protests. “Rita, please -“ 

“Absolutely not,” she says, leaning against the counter as she pulls out her phone. 

“It’s my show!” he says. “I’m responsible for making sure everything is in good shape -“ 

“Right now you’re responsible for making sure you’re in good shape,” she replies. “There are two other perfectly competent meteorologists -“ 

“It’s not their _show_ , I have more experience, I have _seniority_ -“ 

She puts up a hand to silence him as she listens to her phone ring, her eyes fixed on him from across the room. “Yes, hi,” she says in a voice that betrays none of the fury in her eyes. “It’s Rita. Could you let Greg and Tim in production know that I’m not going to be coming back in today?” 

“No,” Phil protests, giving her a despairing look. “Ritaaaaa...” 

“Mm-hm,” she says. “Yeah, Tim already knows what’s going on.” 

“I can take care of myself,” he insists. “Rita, please, I’m forty-one -“

“Thanks, Stacy,” she says sweetly. “You have a great day.” 

“You’re a bully,” he complains. 

“And you haven’t even tried to drink any of that water,” she says. “Here’s the deal, Phil, you cooperate and behave yourself today, and I’ll think about getting you all your work stuff tomorrow morning so you can work from home.” 

“Stubborn,” he whines. 

“Look who’s talking,” she shoots back. “Drink your water, Phil.” 

He sips it reluctantly, though he’s glad at least to get the taste of vomit out of his mouth. “Sorry,” he says after a few moments. “I guess I’m being kind of a dick.” 

“Hey, it’s okay,” she says, and sits down next to him, putting her arm around him. “You must feel pretty rotten, I get it.” 

“Mm,” he agrees, and leans his head against hers. “Still. You’re trying to look out for me, and I’m... well. I don’t want to, uh, be ungrateful, or anything, that’s all.” 

“No one’s ever grateful for anything when they’ve been throwing up all day,” she says. “It’s fine. Just try to rest, okay? That’s the best way to get better.”


	4. Chapter 4

He dozes off sometime around three and ends up sleeping the rest of the afternoon, waking up to find it’s gotten dark outside his windows. His head is a little clearer, he thinks, and while his stomach doesn’t feel great, he hasn’t woken up sick to throw up the water he drank, either. Even sitting up on the couch again doesn’t make him nauseous.

“Rita?” he calls, rubbing his eyes.

“Hey,” she calls back from the kitchen. “How are you feeling?”

“Could be worse,” he says. “At least my head’s stopped spinning.”

“Hey, that’s a start,” she says cheerfully, leaning on the counter to look at him. “I got you some stuff from the store. There’s ginger ale and, um, ginger tea if you want something hot. And Gatorade. What do you want?”

“I don’t even like ginger ale,” he complains. “Or Gatorade.”

“Well, um, you need to drink some anyways,” she says, arching an eyebrow. “You have to -“

“Keep up on fluids, I know,” he grumbles. “Fine, give me a Gatorade.”

“You should try to eat something, too,” she adds as she brings one over. “At least a little, some crackers or something.”

He groans, cracking open the bottle and making a face as he sips from it. “Don’t want any,” he mutters, putting his feet up on the coffee table and curling up on himself.

“Okay, um, how about some applesauce then?” she offers. “I got some while I was out, you know, just one of those little cups...”

“I don’t want any,” he protests again. “I’ve gone a couple hours now without puking, I’d kind of like to keep it up.”

Her stern look softens a little, and she sits down next to him on the couch, rubbing his shoulders with one hand. “Guess I can’t blame you for that,” she says. “Try to have something little before you go back to bed? For me?”

“Nnnnh,” he mutters, shrugging. “I’ll try.”

“Thanks,” she says, and offers a smile. “Anything else I can do for you?”

“Well, you could keep doing that forever,” he suggests, leaning back into her touch.

“Oh, yeah?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. “I can do that as long as you keep up with the Gatorade.”

“I’ll eat crackers _and_ applesauce if it means you’ll sit with me and rub my back the rest of the night,” he assures her. “That feels a lot better.” He takes a sip of his drink and sets it down. “Hey, uh, sorry again about earlier.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, and stops what she’s doing to elbow him gently in the side. “Hey, you wanna watch a movie?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, actually, that sounds great.”

* * *

She puts on _Indiana Jones_ and lets him lay his head in her lap while they watch, rubbing the back of his neck with her fingers and ruffling up his hair. He nibbles on saltine crackers and sits up every few minutes, with her help, to take a sip of Gatorade.

He is starting to feel a lot better, between laying down and her massaging the tension out of his stiff shoulders; by the end of the movie, he almost thinks he _could_ eat some solid food for dinner, but he’s not about to risk going that far after how well he handled lunch earlier. Instead, he eats a cup of applesauce like he promised while Rita reheats leftover Chinese in the microwave.

“You want some of my rice, too?” she offers as she comes back to the living room with her dinner. “That’s not too hard on your stomach.”

“Maybe a little,” he admits, sitting up and pulling the quilt around his shoulders. “Just to see how I feel.”

“Go for it,” she says, and wedges the box into the blankets so he can reach it as well. “Should I put the second one in?”

“Sure,” he says. “Not as good as Raiders, but still.”

She snorts and grabs the DVD from the bookcase to switch out the discs. He leans back against the couch cushions and presses up against her as she sits back down, resting his head on hers and huddling into the quilt. Smiling softly, she rests her hand on his back and traces slow circles between his shoulders with her fingertips as the movie starts.

He starts falling asleep again halfway through, and totally dozes off sometime around the escape from the mines, to wake up as the credits are rolling and find Rita half-asleep on the couch, still sitting up, absently stroking his hair.

“Hey,” he says, and she jumps.

“Hi,” she replies. “You’re awake.”

“Yeah,” he says, and nods. “You should go to bed. You’ve got to work tomorrow, remember?”

“Mm,” she agrees, rubbing her eyes. “Yeah, I guess so. Are you coming?”

He shakes his head. “I’ll stay out here. Don’t want to get you sick, too.”

She laughs at that and gets to her feet. “There anything you need?” she asks. “Water? An actual pillow?”

“Pillow would be nice,” he murmurs, rearranging himself.

She disappears into the bedroom to get one and helps him sit up so she can tuck it under his head. “There you go,” she says, pulling the quilt over him. “Hey, wake me up if you need anything, okay?”

“Sure,” he agrees. “Night, Rita.”

“Night, Phil,” she says, and leans over to press a kiss to his forehead before leaving the room.

* * *

He drifts off again only to wake up an hour later with his stomach full of dread and his mouth full of bitterness. “Ah, fuck,” he mutters, wrapping his arm around himself and pushing himself up enough to lean over the trash can. His stomach lurches and heaves, and he retches weakly a few times before he actually vomits, throwing up rice and Gatorade into the garbage.

So much for feeling _better._

He slumps over on his side, panting a little, gritting his teeth against nausea that still won’t go away. He’s sweating and shaking at the same time, his face flushed but his hands cold. With his sleeve he wipes the sweat from his brow, pushing back his damp hair, and rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. He can taste acid and metal on his tongue, and his throat and even his nose burn with it. He groans and reaches for the water on the coffee table to rinse his mouth out and spit into the trash can again.

He wants to go get Rita, and feels selfish for it; he doesn’t actually _need_ anything, just wants company, wants her to sit with him and comfort him until he can fall asleep again. Stupid, he thinks, and grimaces as his stomach turns over. He can’t bother her just because he’s awake and sick. Anyways, she needs sleep more, since at this point it looks like he’s definitely not going into work tomorrow.

His stomach convulses and he rolls over to puke up another mouthful of acid. Tears burn in his eyes and he screws up his face to get rid of them. Rita will scold him if he doesn’t at least try to drink something, he thinks, but the very thought of it is enough to make him throw up again.

When the nausea finally recedes, he does force himself to take a few tiny sips of water, if only to soothe his throat. Hugging himself miserably, he lays back down, tentatively rubbing his stomach in the hopes that it might ease the soreness in his abdomen. He still feels pretty terrible, but he doesn’t think he’s going to be sick anymore; if the water hasn’t already come back up, he’s probably okay for now.

Drawing the quilt around himself again, he closes his eyes and slips back into an uneasy sleep. 


	5. Chapter 5

The sun in his eyes and the beginnings of a headache wake him up to find Rita already awake and making breakfast in the kitchen.

“What time is it?” he asks groggily, rubbing his eyes. “Sun’s up.”

“Little before seven,” she says.

“You’re late for work,” he mumbles.

“I’m going in at eight,” she replies. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“Huh?” he asks, blinking at her.

“You were sick last night,” she says. “You should have come to get me.”

“Oh,” he says. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

She leans around the corner and throws a balled-up napkin at his head, which bounces off his cheek and lands in the garbage. “I told you to wake me up if you needed anything,” she reminds him sharply.

“Nice shot,” he says dryly. “Anyways, I didn’t _need_ anything. What were you gonna do about it?”

“Well, at least I could have sat up with you,” she says. “Or made you more comfortable.”

“That’s not…” he begins.

She scowls, holding up the spatula she’s using like a threat, and he shuts up. “Pretty sure comfort and companionship still fall under the label of _anything,_ ” she says. “You think you can try to eat something?”

“Ugh,” he groans, throwing his arm over his face. “I guess I can _try._ ”

“What do you want?” she asks.

“Well, part of me really wants the eggs you’re making,” he says. “Fortunately, I know that part of me is _stupid._ ”

“You don’t want my eggs anyways,” she says. “You think the way I make them is gross, remember?”

“Oh, yeah,” he agrees. “Do me a favor and don’t eat them out here, huh?”

“Yeah,” she says dryly, “since even when you’re not sick you act like just seeing them might make you puke.” She looks around the kitchen, putting her hands on her hips. “I can make you toast,” she offers. “Or you can have more applesauce, or, um…”

“Toast is fine,” he says. “Hey, get me a Gatorade too, will you?”

She grins at him. “Wow,” she says, “look who’s behaving himself this morning.”

He manages a wry smile in return. “Well, it’s the only thing that’ll get you off my case, isn’t it?”

“Mm-hm,” she agrees, laughing, and goes to put some bread in the toaster for him.

“Hey, speaking of,” he adds, “you’re gonna send me my stuff when you get to the station, right?”

She hums thoughtfully, getting out a plate for her food. “If you promise you won’t strain yourself,” she says.

“I promise,” he agrees quickly, which earns him a suspicious sideways look.

“And you’ll rest, and drink fluids,” she adds.

“Come on,” he says. “I already asked you to get me a Gatorade. I’ll drink fluids.”

“And take something for the fever,” she says. “Your temperature’s still up, you need to keep an eye on it.”

“Rita, if it will get you to send me my things, I will text you photo evidence of my exact temperature every hour,” he says, exasperated.

“Okay,” she agrees, “if you’ll also take some ibuprofen before I leave.”

“Fine,” he says. “Bring it over here.”

She grabs the bottle as well as his toast and a Gatorade. “Here,” she says, and shakes out two tablets.

He takes them but only puts one in his mouth, leaning over to get a drink to wash it down. “I’ll take the other one in a little bit if I’m feeling okay,” he promises, and her glare softens.

“Take care of yourself today,” she says, and leans down to kiss his temple. “For me. Promise me you will.”

“I promise,” he says, and catches her hand. “Thanks,” he adds, after a moment, “for being here.”

She smiles and squeezes his fingers. “I better head out,” she says. “Hang in there, Phil.”

“Take my umbrella,” he calls as she goes to put on her jacket. “It’s gonna rain tonight.”

“Oh, is it?” she says lightly. “You’ll have to keep me updated after you take a look at the charts.”

“Are you _doubting_ me?” he asks, mock-offended. “I’ll have you _know -“_

“I’m sure your predictions are plenty accurate,” she says, pulling on her coat. “You’ve only been _really_ wrong, like, once this year, right?”

“Oh, shut up,” he grumbles. “Get out of here, don’t be late on my account!”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” she says lightly, and waves as she steps out the door.

 

* * *

 

 

He sets up his laptop on the coffee table and sits down on the floor, the quilt wrapped around his shoulders and the blanket over his legs, leaning back against the couch. It’s not as comfortable as being on the couch, but it’s probably better than keeping his computer on his lap when he might start throwing up again any time. He pulls the trash can over next to him so he won’t have to scramble for it if - or, well, probably when - he does get sick.

Rita hasn’t actually emailed him yet, so he decides he ought to put on a movie until she does. After a few minutes of deliberation, he settles on Star Wars and gets up to put the first one in. He’d rather watch A New Hope, but he’s going to be working, and that’s an experience he wants to savor, seeing as he hasn’t seen it since before Punxsutawney, two months and God only knows how many days ago. He’ll save the best ones for after his work day is over.

He leans back against the couch and sips his Gatorade while he watches the opening without actually reading any of it, his vision half in focus except for when he glances at the computer to see if Rita’s actually sent him his work yet. His head is feeling cloudy again, but the ibuprofen should help when it kicks in, at least to ease the dull ache in his temples and cool the flush he can feel across his face.

His phone chirps next to him, and he frowns, blinking stupidly at it for a moment before he manages to actually pick it up. It’s Rita, which makes him glad at first until he gets his eyes to focus enough to read the message.  
  
_Lovely Rita: pretty sure you promised me a picture of the thermometer??_ _  
_  
He groans and rolls his eyes, stumbling to his feet to get it from the bathroom. He hadn’t figured she would actually make him follow through on that.  
Hold on, he texts her, shoving it under his tongue and slouching back to the living room to sit back down.  
  
_Phil: So are you going to send me my work stuff after this or_ _  
__Lovely Rita: pics first_  
  
He takes one of himself making a face at her and sends it back.  
  
_Lovely Rita: very funny phil._ _  
_  
The thermometer beeps and he grimaces as he checks it and sees a reading of 102. That’s worse than he thought. He takes a picture of it for Rita and tosses it on the table.  
  
_Phil: Happy now?_ _  
__Lovely Rita: oh :(_ _  
__Lovely Rita: are you sure you’re up for working?_ _  
__Phil: Yeah I’m fine_ _  
__Phil: I only took the ibuprofen like half an hour ago it’ll go down more in a bit_ _  
__Phil: Anyways if I don’t have something else to do aside from watch the phantom fucking menace I’m gonna lose my goddamn mind_ _  
__Lovely Rita: okay if you say so_ _  
__Lovely Rita: give me your password so I can get everything for you_  
Lovely Rita: and tell me what you need me to send you I don’t know what you’re looking for  
  
He texts her the password and a list of the files he needs and where to find them, and then leans back against the couch, dropping his phone on the floor. He really should take the other ibuprofen, he thinks, just to help get his temperature down. He’ll do it when she actually sends him the email, he decides, and goes back to staring blankly at Liam Neeson and Ewan McGregor fighting droids.

* * *

 

He holds his focus for a while, but his headache, if anything, gets worse as he works, and after an hour and a half he’s starting to feel queasy again as well. He groans and pushes his laptop away, leaning back against the cushions and closing his eyes. If he rests for a few minutes he ought to feel better.

He hears the unpleasant sound his stomach makes, and grits his teeth, willing himself to keep his breakfast down. He can taste acid in the back of his mouth and swallows hard. He’d been fine ten minutes ago, for God’s sake.

His stomach turns over again and he covers his mouth with the back of one hand. He burps a little and the chalky, bitter taste of the painkiller hits his tongue, making him gag; he grabs the trash can and pulls it into his lap before he retches and vomits, coughing up a watery stream of undissolved medicine and acid and sports drink.

“Oh, Lord,” he mutters, screwing his eyes shut and trying to catch his breath. He heaves again and ducks his head as another mouthful of liquid forces its way back up his throat. His eyes and nose are burning, and he’s getting chills again, tremors wracking his body in between another few rounds of throwing up all the Gatorade he’s had to drink this morning.

Maybe he should take a break, he thinks, hunching his shoulders as he leans over the garbage, waiting for his stomach to settle. It makes him feel a little guilty, wanting to give up so soon, but his head is so cloudy he’s not sure he can read his computer screen, let alone actually analyze anything he’s looking at. And really, he just wants to lay down. Maybe it’ll help with the nausea, even just a little.

He groans and leans over to close his laptop, setting the trash can aside. The sound of liquid sloshing in the liner makes him gag again, but he just coughs and dry heaves a little before it passes. Wrapping the quilt and blanket around himself, he crawls back onto the couch and curls up on his side, closing his eyes. When the room stops spinning he’ll feel better.

He’s half asleep when Rita texts him again, and groans as he pushes himself up on his elbows to lean over and grab his phone from the table.  
  
Lovely Rita: hey how are you doing?  
Lovely Rita: update pls  
Phil: Well I could be fucking better.  
Lovely Rita: :/  
Phil: Sorry, that wasn’t nice  
Phil: I took the other ibuprofen but it made me sick  
Lovely Rita: oh no hon :(  
Phil: So I’m laying down since I puked like eight times in a row  
Phil: Also, throwing up painkillers is the worst.  
_Lovely Rita: hang in there, ok? ily_  
  
She signs her message with a heart, which makes him smile in spite of himself. Thanks, he sends back, and closes his eyes again.

* * *

 

He feels a little better in the afternoon, enough to eat some applesauce and saltine crackers and take another ibuprofen at least, and he manages another few hours of work without giving himself a headache  _or_ having to stop and spend ten minutes bent over the trash can spewing his guts out again. Around two he takes a break to rest his eyes and text Rita again.

 _Phil: Hey_  
_Phil: Guess who had lunch and didn't even bring it up an hour later_  
_Lovely Rita: yay!_  
_Lovely Rita: proud of you babe_  
_Phil: You're making fun of me aren't you_  
_Lovely Rita: no! i am proud_  
_Lovely Rita: it sounds like you're doing a little better! :)_  
_Phil: Yeah, a little bit, I think._

He gets back to work, and only stops when he gets an email a little after three marked as urgent. He quickly pulls it up, frowning. It’s from Rita, sent with the subject line “Important Communication ATTN: Phil Connors,” and he hurries to open it.   
  
The first thing in it is a link to the station’s Facebook page. He squints, looking past it to the body of the message.   
  
_Wishing Mr Connors a quick recovery from Cranberry! Love, Tina, Joe, Matt, and Marcus._ _  
_ _  
_ _Sending healing thoughts for our favorite weatherman! - the Andersons._ _  
_ _  
_ _Stay warm and get lots of rest so you can be back in good health, Phil!_ _  
_ _  
_ _Hope there’s better weather soon for Phil!_ _  
_ _  
_ _Dear Phil, my daughter Penny (6) wants you to know she hopes your mom will make you some soup to help you feel better and that you have lots of good books to read while you’re in bed. Hang in there! - Mandy C_ _  
_   
He doesn’t realize he’s tearing up until his vision starts to blur, and blinks quickly, shaking his head as he grabs his phone to text Rita.   
  
_Phil: This isn’t really urgent you know_  
 _Lovely Rita: i dont know what you’re talking about_  
 _Phil: Yes you do._   
_Lovely Rita: correspondence from viewers is very important_  
 _Phil: I would have seen it when I come back in tomorrow._  
 _Phil: Anyways I know you’re trying to guilt me into resting more so cut that out._  
 _Lovely Rita: well I can’t help but notice you saw your urgent email pretty fast_  
 _Lovely Rita: since you were sitting at your computer probably giving yourself a headache trying to do math_  
 _Phil: It’s more physics than it is math_  
 _Lovely Rita: not the point, phil :/_  
 _Lovely Rita: get some rest and watch star wars we’ve got your workload handled_  
 _Lovely Rita: and the more you strain yourself the longer it’ll take to get better_   
  
He scowls at his phone and sets it aside, looking back at the email. The list of messages goes on, more notices from Facebook and emails sent to his work address and mentions on Twitter, all wishing him well. There have to be at least a hundred of them - Rita must have been putting them together all day to send him this.   
Despite himself, he smiles as he reads them, drying his eyes and cheeks with the corner of the quilt when he catches himself starting to cry a little. Even if he knows she only did it to make him feel bad for not resting, he’s a little grateful to Rita for passing on the messages. It’s a nice reminder that even near strangers seem to like him even better now.

Maybe, he decides, it wouldn’t be so bad to send in what he's done so far and take it easy for the rest of the day.

 

 


End file.
